


A Touch of the Dramatic

by knobblyfruit



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-26
Updated: 2010-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knobblyfruit/pseuds/knobblyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watson, my dear Bones! You are the Watson to my Holmes." Probably slightly cracky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of the Dramatic

**Author's Note:**

> I requested drabble prompts in my LJ, and [](http://zombres.livejournal.com/profile)[**zombres**](http://zombres.livejournal.com/) requested Kirk/McCoy, playing detective. It morphed into this, my first Trek fic ever. Title from the Holmes quote, "Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic." Thanks, Wikiquote!

McCoy has been around Jim for far too long. He doesn't bother asking where he got the pipe and deerstalker hat. Instead he crosses his arms in front of him and cuts right to the chase.

"Do I even want to know what you're doing?"

"Why, yes you do, Bones!" Jim booms cheerfully, throwing an arm around McCoy's shoulders and steering him back down the hall. "Because you're going to help me do it."

"Dammit, Jim. I just got off shift and I'm hungry --"

But Jim has set the pipe in his mouth and is rubbing his chin with his free hand. "Do you think you could grow a mustache in, say, ten minutes?" he says out of the corner of his mouth.

"What the hell are you --"

"I bet you could, I swear you've got a full-blown beard every morning --"

"Jim..." McCoy says in warning, and that warning clearly says that if Jim doesn't explain himself right this second, he's going to have a hypospray shoved where the sun don't shine.

Jim takes the pipe out of his mouth before exclaiming, "Watson, my dear Bones!" He waves his arm around in a grand gesture. "You are the Watson to my Holmes."

"Christ, Jim, what did you put in that pipe?"

But again, Jim clearly isn't listening. "And Watson has a mustache!" Suddenly he snaps his fingers with the hand near McCoy's face, nearly taking an eye out in the process. "And a CANE! Dude! Do you have a cane?"

"Did you just call me _dude_?"

"I bet there's one down in sickbay," Jim muses.

By now, McCoy has had enough. He stops in his tracks, locking his legs so Jim can't move him. Jim doesn't stop at quite the same time and nearly trips.

"Woah, Bones, what --"

McCoy turns to face him and, with his eyebrow twitching, manages to ask in a quietly even voice, "Care to tell me why you want us to roleplay fictional characters from the nineteenth century?"

Jim waggles his eyebrows appreciatively. "Roleplaying? Kinky, Bones. Though have you seen the movie from the early twenty-first century? They were so _totally_ fu--"

"JIM!" Only years of honing his patience is keeping McCoy from strangling Jim right here. The man has a one-track mind when it comes to captain-y things and sex but nearly everything else... "Focus, both eyes on me."

That earns him an eyeroll. "Boooones. I'm looking for my shirt."

McCoy blinks. "Your shirt."

"Yes. Long-sleeved, gold, got little Starfleet insignias all over it?"

"You mean the one that looks remarkably like the one you're wearing now?"

"No! Well. Okay, yes, but not this one. The one I'm looking for is a little bigger. And softer. It's more comfortable, is what I'm saying. It's not just a shirt, Bones. It's _the_ shirt."

"The shirt."

"The shirt I wore the first day of our five year mission! The shirt I wore when I went down to Betelgeuse IV and got them to join the Federation, even though everyone said it couldn't be done, and there's even a little stain on it from when I spilled some wine at the celebration dinner, and --"

McCoy rubs the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming. "Okay, all right, keep your hat on."

"It's my lucky shirt, Bones."

"I got it."

"I need to find it."

For the sake of what little sanity he has left at that point, McCoy decides to forgo the question of why Jim felt the need to dress up as a three hundred year old fictional character to do it. He'd bet all the credits to his name that the answer would be, "Why not?"

"Where did you see it last?"

"The closet! And, yes, I looked. It wasn't there."

McCoy sighs deeply. He instinctively knows that when he gets back to their quarters, it's going to look like a tornado went through it. Twice. "Did you talk to the laundry people?"

"Yes! I'm not stupid, Bones." Jim has the gall to look indignant.

McCoy opens his mouth to retort, but decides it's too easy. "I'm sure it'll turn up eventually, Jim. Now, if you don't mind --"

"Captain!"

They both turn to see a smiling Sulu pulling a pouting Chekov towards them by the arm. "I think Pavel has something of yours, sir. The people down in laundry must have gotten something mixed up."

McCoy can't cover his snicker. Chekov is wearing a gold command shirt that is at least two sizes too big. The sleeves go several inches past his hands and the bottom goes a little too far down his legs.

Chekov shoots him a glare that clearly says, "Fuck you. Sir."

Jim just grins. "I am indeed looking for a missing shirt."

McCoy thinks it's a testament to Jim's crew that neither Sulu nor Chekov blink an eye at Jim's hat and pipe. Chekov simply pulls the shirt off and hands it to his captain, leaving him in the standard black undershirt. He turns his glare to Sulu and then stomps back in the direction they came in.

Sulu laughs and chases after him. "C'mon! You were --"

"Don't you dare say 'adorable,' Hikaru!" And that's the last thing McCoy hears as they turn the corner.

He turns back to Jim to see him examining the shirt. "Not a forgery, is it?" he asks drily.

"Nope!" Jim happily proclaims. He tucks the shirt under his arm and takes a couple fake puffs from the pipe. "Well, Watson..."

"Yes, Holmes?"

Jim's grin is bright like a supernova and something in McCoy melts. "Case closed."

McCoy huffs a laugh and shakes his head. They start walking again. "Great. Now we can solve the great mystery of why I don't have a glass of bourbon in my hand right now."

Jim slings his arm around McCoy's waist and rests his head on his shoulder. "You can borrow my hat, if you think it'll help."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

END.


End file.
